Gambit
by BullardCR
Summary: What is a man willing to do in the face of danger? What is the price of freedom? Submission for "Iron Fic" contest, July 2010, for the Fanfiction Forum. Oneshot


I do not own the rights to Neon Genesis Evangelion, or any of the characters, equipment, or locations written in this fanfiction. The purpose of this fanfiction is merely for the non-profit enjoyment of other readers, and should only be considered as such. If requested by Gainax, Hideki Anno, or other parties which represent aforementioned objects in this story, I will remove it promptly.

Gambit

What was he thinking, Shigeru wondered, as he sprinted from his station on the command tier to the access hatch to Caspar. As the JSSDF moved on their position, he looked back to Maya and Makoto, huddled behind their bullet-rittled terminals. They were pinned down by the enemy fire, the command tier consoles serving as crude but effective protection for the time being. Neither of them were going to move, and with the enemy fire surrounding them, there were no real options to escape. Besides, where would they escape to? The entire headquarters had been swarmed by the defense forces.

If they broke now, they would die.

Cradling his personal defense weapon, a Ruger MP9, he felt for the remaining magazines. In his uniform pockets were three of the thirty-two round magazines. The nine millimeter, he knew, was not effective for penetrating body armor, but looking back to the others, it was the most powerful ordinance available out of them all. "Crap," he hissed, noticing the heat soaking through his hands from the weapon. Without time to cool down, the barrel assembly would not last much longer.

He had no choice but to go ahead.

"What are you doing?" Hyuuga shouted back.

"Keep shooting!" Aoba barked. "Keep them distracted!" He really didn't know what he was doing, himself, but something needed to turn around. As much of a cynical slacker as he was, the man could not think about the irony of the situation. Death was a great motivator for the primitive brain, often overriding the most logical, rational aspects of a man's life. Climbing through an active Seventh Generation supercomputer set for self-destruct, he considered, would likely fall into that category.

The coolant lines and insulated cables were searing hot, scorching his hands as he clamped down on them, scrambling down the vertical shaft. Each motion was a test of his resolve. Biting his tongue as he clenched down on his teeth, Aoba fought the instinct to let go, his body weight dangling over the bottomless pit wrapped in high voltage wire. Snaking his legs around the conduit lines, the weapon slung over his shoulder, he could no longer fight his reflexes. Instead, wrapping his elbows around the conduit, he slid, firefighter style down the shaft.

It was more a controlled tumble than a controlled descent, his head smacking against sharp protrusions of circuit breakers, control modules, and networking hubs. Besides the pinpoint of light from his entry point above, his fall through pain was in total darkness. However, if he could just feel with his feet for the major junction box, he would reach his destination.

A large sharpened box cut along his left shin, a shooting pain, smell of burned polyester, and warm wetness trailing down his ankle. That was it! He clamped down hard with his elbows and injured ankle on the piping, struggling to reach the box. It was bolted securely, able to take the weight of a man, maybe two if he was lucky.

There was a loud thump and an echoing clang as he rolled onto the heated steel. Leaping up to his feet, the heat shot through his uniform, burning his back and shoulders. The air itself was stale, blasting his face in waves, ripping the water from his sweat. Tightening his face, squeezing his eyes shut, there was just one last push.

As gently as possible, he set his hands on the wall of the shaft, feeling through the heat for the creases of the access hatch. His sense of touch had changed, he noted through the pain. Edges, surfaces, even button screws all felt the same, as irritants to his mangled fingers. He had no choice, however. As the thumps and pings of stray bullets echoed outside with the roar of gunfire, he knew the terminals above would not hold much longer.

"Why?" he asked himself, his throat parched. Why was he doing this?

A swift kick through the low-grade sheet steel hatch, and the holes for the button screws sheared. The panel flopped aside, Aoba's eyes blinded by the sudden burst of light. In an instant, silhouettes were rising next to him as he fumbled for the Ruger. But he did not have time to use it, their hands reaching out, trying to pin him back in the hellish shaft as the rush of cool air swept past. No, never! He would NEVER go back to that shaft again.

Throwing his entire body weight into the sprint, he tackled the man in front of him, shoving the soldier's back into the angled railing along the lower bridge tier. There was a snapping crack, like fresh celery, and the man whimpered, crumpling to the deck. Spinning on his right foot, he drove the injured heel into another soldier's solar plexus. This man flew back into the shaft, disappearing from sight. All Shigeru could hear were echoing smacks of flesh against steel as the mass bounded down the pit.

Falling to his knees, he looked back and forth, searching for something, anything he could use. The military was closing in, moving up the stairwells along either side to the staff elevators, rappelling gear in their hands. It was then he noticed the M249 SAW, a merciless weapon. The soldier he had kicked into the shaft must have been the light machine gunner of the recon squad sent to the shaft. That left him only the single 200 round belt of five point fifty-six NATO ammunition.

Looking back at the infantry forces in their black Kevlar, it would work.

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Why he came back after Instrumentality several years before, he did not know. Rolling in his chair up the handicap ramp to the graduating junior high class of Tokyo-3 municipal junior high, he stopped in front of the class representative, a Nozomi Horaki, straightening his properly pressed black dress uniform. The small ribbon pinned to the left breast of the jacket was a small symbol, but a symbol none the less. It was the reason he was the speaker there today.

Taking the girl's hand in a firm shake, he worked forward to the podium, grasping for the microphone. After several failed attempts, Nozomi, the short brunette, tried to reach it for him. However, the retired lieutenant commander waved her off, and clenching his chair, struggled to raise himself out of the chair. For a moment, just a brief moment, he felt the illusion of standing again, his dead, shattered legs propping his weight up as lifeless mass.

As the man's tired eyes and scorched face scanned the crowd, he noticed the Children sitting in the back row, all in their best formal wear. They had long since moved on to college. That was what made the higher-ups give him that ribbon, for keeping the Magi online just long enough. Seeing the Horakis standing alongside Shinji, and looking back to the young girl on stage standing by his side, he wondered about those last seconds, wielding the rifle back and forth between the waves of men.

Leaning back into the chair, he let out a breath. "Eventually," he started into the microphone, "someone will ask you what you did with your life." He paused, looking again at the Children. "And if you're proud of yourself, of what you've done, all you need to say is it seemed like a good idea at the time."

**End**

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